Fated: Torn Apart by History, Bound for Eternity

by Carolyn McCray

  Breaking off the kiss, Syra whispered in his ear, “Do not fight it.”

  “Never.” Oh, how little she knew of his passion. It was a raging river, and Brutus was prepared to ride each and every rapid with elation. He found her lips again as images opened in his mind like a flower’s first bloom.

  There was no surprise when Brutus realized that he had known Syra before. Her hair might be brown or her eyes blue, but the woman whose lips now kissed him hungrily was the same.

  He let the sensation wash over him as his arousal hardened against the woman known as Syra. There was no hiding his desire now, nor did he wish to. The full truth was still beyond his sight, but Brutus knew this woman was his own.

  Syra had been his Fated since the dawn of time. Freed from the shame and guilt back at the celebration, Brutus explored Syra’s back. She groaned as his hands cupped her buttocks and pulled her to him. This was not the first time he had heard her make that sound, and he wished to hear it over and over again.

  The more memories that poured into his mind, the greater his desire to know everything about this new body of hers. Each Awakening only drove his passion to dizzying new heights. While Syra had been the aggressor at the beginning of their kiss, Brutus now guided their course. As his hands became surer, and the passion they had shared for ages flowed through them, Brutus could feel her yield to him. Her body leaned into his in sweet surrender, causing him to groan in pleasure. No matter that Syra was a warrior who could break an enemy in half, she was still a woman who could make him feel the man.

  * * *

  Syra felt Brutus’ hand slide up her side and find the outline of her chest. He cupped her breast and gave the flesh the tenderest squeeze. Syra moaned for a moment, then caught his hand and moved it away.

  “Not here,” she whispered.

  Brutus kissed her neck in that tender spot just beneath her earlobe. As much as she wished to surrender to his passion, this was not the time or the place for such amorous intents. Again, she pushed him away.

  “The Crux is at hand.”

  It was obvious that Brutus cared not for intrigue. His desire was hard against her, and his hands still sought purchase to pull her closer. This time with more force, she pushed him back a step.

  “Your Guardian is here. He will explain.”

  Brutus growled his disapproval but kept his distance as Syra opened the door to the tunnel. The brooding frown evaporated from Brutus’ face when he saw his old friend. She stepped out of the way as Brutus and Horat clasped arms in welcome. Leaning against the wall, Syra tried not to reveal how weak she was. She had used the Crux as an excuse to distract her lover. The truth would have concerned him too greatly.

  Never before had an Awakening tasked her so. Not only was her body sluggish, her mind was not yet her own. Her skull was filled with glistening fragments from a hundred different lives, yet none would gel into a coherent whole. Normally within minutes their history would bloom in her mind. All the anxiety of leaving a single life behind and embracing a hundred would be swept away within a few breaths. Not this time. As much as she knew the name Zi, she could not yet call herself that.

  Syra could feel these other lives in her very marrow. Her skin had been black, brown, yellow, tattooed, and dyed in the blood of enemies, yet she still felt her home was northern Scotland rather than the ancient valley of Nirro.

  Legs shaking, Syra lowered herself onto the small stool across from the statue of Venus. How could she help Brutus, if she could barely stand? The hellish ride from the Tiber had tapped out the last of her strength far worse than the trek across Spain in the slave cart.

  A hand found hers. Even though Brutus was deep in conversation with Horat, he still sought her out. She gave a firm squeeze back, not wishing him to worry over her. He had far more complicated issues to wrestle with.

  “The Ides are at hand, Brutus,” Horat said

  “Aye. Caesar has taken Suprinna to heart, for he will not leave his estate.”

  “You must coax him out.”

  “Nay. They will kill him.”

  Syra could see the surprise on Horat’s face when he spoke next.

  “Yes. Caesar must die.”

  * * *

  Brutus felt as if someone had kicked him in the chest. “Kill him?”

  The Roman had assumed that when he Awakened, this course could be avoided. That Julius could be saved. Was that not the Order’s responsibility—to bring civilization to the burgeoning human population? How did cold-blooded murder promote their objective?

  Horat seemed surprised at Brutus’ question. “Why, yes. That is when the conspirators have decided—”

  “No. I mean, why must he die?”

  “Brutus, I know you have feelings for—”

  As much affection as Brutus felt for Horat, he was not to be pampered or manipulated. “Why?”

  The older man took a deep breath. “He stifles Rome. He is ill. He divides the nation when it needs to be united.”

  “And who would do this uniting? Antony?”

  “Nay. Octavius.”

  Brutus was truly surprised. “Caesar’s young nephew?”

  “He is not so young now. He crests his seventeenth birthday soon.”

  “You mean for a child to lead Rome?”

  Horat was not dissuaded by Brutus’ tone. “You were not much older when you took on the mantle of The Fated.”

  Brutus’ jaw tensed. That was a far different thing. This was a different time. Not just brute strength was needed. Diplomacy that was far beyond an adolescent was required.

  “Nay, but the child is too green for such a task.”

  “The Order has long been in Rome. His tutor is of the Order. His schooling is far beyond his years. He will be ready.”

  Who was he to challenge the greatest minds the world could gather? How many of Horat’s words were true? Was his heart interfering with his Fate? Perhaps, but Brutus could not shake the sense of wrongness here.

  “Why not allow him to strike at Parthia? Death may await him there. Then we shall not worry about a king.”

  Horat shook his head. “You misunderstand us. We mean to make Octavius not only a king but an emperor.”

  Shocked, Brutus struggled to question such a notion. “Then why kill Caesar?”

  “The Senate can never unify under him. Rome needs a strong hand, but one that is not constantly being bitten by the legislature.”

  Brutus felt the walls of the small cubicle press down upon him. He had thought himself free of this burden twice now, and both times the responsibility of the assassination had come back to rest upon his doorstep. Brutus was restless and needed time and space to think, but he had neither. Another concern rose in his mind.

  “If that is the case, than why did the Order alert Caesar?”

  “The Order did no such thing.”

  “Yes, it was Suprinna. He clearly warned Caesar of the dangers today.”

  Horat’s eyes dilated slightly. “Suprinna is not of the Order.”

  Now Brutus was the one to feel caution. He relayed all that Suprinna had said to him over the past few months. “Could he have the sight?”

  “Or the Dark truly exists,” Horat suggested.

  Brutus could not help but curse under his breath. It had been long since the suspicion of a rival Order had been raised. A band of educated men who meant to keep civilization hobbled to its past. Some said the Dark wished to keep the populace uneducated and easy to manipulate. The scholars had yet to find any firm proof of their existence, but there were moments much like this that made them suspect.

  “Yet it seems that Suprinna wished me to Awaken,” Brutus said as the shock began to fade.

  “Perhaps for just this purpose. To stall the assassination.”

  Brutus shook his head. “Or promote it.”

  * * *

  Syra watched her love struggle with his decision. The task ahead of him betrayed every shred of honor that clung to Brutus’ bones. She knew that assassination was t
he lowest form of treachery. But she could also see by the slump of his shoulders that his responsibilities had a far broader scope than just a single man’s life. History hung in the balance this day. Would Rome move forward in a surge of progress, or would Brutus doom the Republic to stagnate under an unhealthy leader?

  Echoing down the hallway, someone called Brutus’ name. Syra could tell by the voice that it was Cicero, the older senator. She and Horat backed away a few steps as the voice grew stronger. Syra looked to the secret door that was closed, but Brutus shook his head. Syra found it doubtful that the thick curtain would stop the noisy intruder, but Brutus seemed unconcerned.

  “Brutus?” Cicero asked.

  “Leave me to my peace, Cicero.”

  “Antony has arrived from the palace and wishes you to join him in convincing Caesar to come to the Curia.”

  Brutus’ face clouded, but you could not hear it within his voice. “I will come out shortly.”

  “But—”

  “Prayers cannot be hastened, Cicero. I will be out in a moment.”

  The old senator said nothing more, but they could hear the scuff of his sandals retreating. Syra looked at Brutus. Once the sound died completely, he frowned deeply.

  “There is no other option?” he asked Horat.

  “Civil war is on the horizon, whether you join the conspiracy or not. If you join, it will align Antony and Octavius against a common enemy.”

  “Cicero or Cassius will not do?”

  The older servant shook his head. “Out of all the conspirators, you are the only one with a military background. You will need to lead the opposing army.”

  Syra now felt the weight of this decision on her heart. Usually, once the Crux was resolved, The Fated could fade into the background. Perhaps scrounge for several years of their own. But Horat asked them to give up even this slim comfort. Brutus needed to not only start the catharsis, but maintain it as well. Horat must have sensed their dual reluctance.

  “If you do not lead it, Antony will easily overwhelm the others and grab power for himself. The Senate will be as recriminatory against him as it was to Caesar. Only Octavius, fresh and young in his power will be able to unify the nation.”

  If Horat did not speak with the knowledge of centuries of research and debate, Syra might have argued, but the Order was seldom wrong about such matters. But it was not she who needed to wield the deadly blade.

  Brutus looked at her. His warm brown eyes were filled with doubt and pain. Syra wished beyond all else that she could shield him from both, but that was not her lot in life.

  “The Crux is at hand, Brutus. I will stand by you no matter what your decision.”

  A faded smile crossed his face. Syra knew she did not need to articulate her last sentence, but it felt good to say it out loud. And even though his brow was still heavy with concern, Brutus’ burden did seem slightly lessened by her words.

  “I will go to Caesar, but I give no guarantees,” Brutus finally stated.

  Horat bowed his head in acceptance and backed into the recess of the alcove. Brutus took Syra’s hand, which suddenly glowed with warmth from his touch. There was so much to say, and no time to say it.

  Syra’s voice was thick with emotion. “We will speak after…”

  “The Fates have been cruel this life,” Brutus said, his words equally strained.

  Syra’s hand reached out and stroked his cheek. “We do not know yet what the future holds. We will reunite after the deed.”

  Brutus shook his head. “I do not know what Antony will do after—”

  Placing a finger over his lips, Syra took a step forward. “I will let nothing happen to you until we can know each other again.”

  Putting his arms around her, Brutus pulled her in for a hard kiss. Neither wanted to part, but all too soon, he backed away. Brutus turned to Horat.

  “Prepare the household to flee Rome.”

  “Everything is in order, sire.”

  Brutus turned back to her. “Wait at the estate, my love.”

  Syra only raised an eyebrow in response. Either Brutus was not fully Awakened or he had taken leave of his senses.

  “I do not wish you in danger,” he stated firmly.

  “I too am Fated, Brutus. I will be here upon your return.”

  Brutus sighed. “At the least, stay here. I do not wish you upon the street and—”

  Syra gave Brutus a quick kiss. “I will be here upon your arrival.”

  Looking satisfied, Brutus parted the curtain and was gone within a breath’s time. She looked at Horat. “Let us be on our way.”

  “But you said—”

  “What Brutus does not know, will not hurt him.”

  The older servant nodded curtly and bade her forward. “I know a route that will allow us to parallel them without detection.”

  Feeling the reassuring weight of the pommel of her sword under her hand, Syra opened the secret door. The Fates might have put these events in motion, but she was determined to keep them in Brutus’ favor.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 17

  Brutus strode next to Antony. Both men headed to the palace to coax Caesar from his home, but each of them had wildly divergent motivations. The younger senator meant to crown a king this day. A king that would divide the Republic and bring Rome to its knees. As much as Brutus resisted the idea, through the throw of centuries he had seen rulers bring a stumbling halt to budding civilizations. Disease at the crown always spread down into each nook and cranny of the nation. History needed a harsh pruning at times. Brutus only wished it were not his shears that did the deed.

  They arrived promptly upon the steps of the palace and entered the residence swiftly. Antony had an urgency to his step that forced Brutus to keep up. Marc seemed determined to drag Caesar from his bed. Upon the two senators entering the dining room, Calpurnia was out of her chair.

  “Antony, I asked you to retire. And Brutus? You have come on a fool’s errand. Caesar will not leave this house.”

  Antony was the one to speak first. “We wish only a moment with him, Calpurnia. I will not strain him, I promise you.”

  Brutus was glad when Caesar’s wife stepped aside. He did not think he would sound too convincing, as Marc had. Servants parted the thin saffron curtains to reveal Caesar’s settee. The man looked humble upon the overstuffed chair. He was laid out as one almost dead. The general’s skin had a pallor to it that Brutus had seen before in mortally injured men. Drool trickled from the corner of his mouth. How many seizures had the man endured?

  “Julius,” Marc intoned gently, rousing the general from a light sleep.

  “Antony?” Caesar asked, as if uncertain of the face before him. “Ah, and Brutus. You have come to bring me to my senses?”

  The younger Roman smiled widely. “Aye. The whole of Rome is awaiting your coronation. We cannot disappoint Venus herself, can we?”

  “Suprinna has Calpurnia in quite a state. The priest’s sacrifices have been quite unfavorable as well.”

  “A few spilt guts cannot sway a man such as you, my liege. One is a woman and one is a panderer. They cannot order the great Caesar about.”

  Julius sighed heavily. “I fear it is my body that betrays me this day.”

  Antony went down on a knee to be level with his general. “I will personally sweep you back after the ceremony. The Ides will be remembered as the first day of a new Rome. A stronger Rome. A Rome that will finally defeat Parthia.”

  Caesar smiled, but it seemed to lack warmth. “And you, Brutus? You wish me to claim the crown this day as well?”

  Even though he had been bracing himself the entire way over, Brutus found that his throat tightened. “Your destiny awaits you at the Forum, Caesar. And none of us can avoid her call.”

  “Well said. If even scholarly Brutus wishes my presence, who am I to decline? Antony, help me up.”

  The younger Roman was at Caesar’s elbow before the general’s words were even out of his mouth. Marc nodded to Brutus.r />
  “Go ahead to the Forum. Have them prepare for the coronation. We will be along in a few minutes.”

  Caesar agreed. “Tell them we will change the omens this day. The Fates will be thwarted.”

  Brutus could only nod in response. Mortals. They had no idea that Fate was a great wheel that ground each of them under her enormous stony weight. There was no avoiding her, only bowing one’s head in acceptance.

  * * *

  Syra breathed out in relief. Brutus exited the palace and headed back to the Forum. By the set of his shoulders, she could tell his mission was successful. Silently, Syra nodded to Horat. They had best hurry back, before Brutus discovered their ruse. But before they had taken a few steps, Horat stopped her with a tap on the arm.

  Looking over, Syra realized that Brutus had paused and was speaking with someone who was obscured by a building. Slinking along the alleyway, Syra came up from behind to overhear the conversation. Brutus’ voice was filled with so much anger that Syra’s hand went to her sword. Whoever so enraged Brutus would regret it quickly.

  “Do not think to order me, Virgin,” he said.

  Syra risked a glance around the building. A woman draped in white silk held her ground in front of the angered Brutus. Creeping forward in the shadow of an awning, Syra positioned herself in case her sword was needed.

  “None are safe until Caesar falls,” the old woman hissed.

  Brutus stepped forward. Even from several feet away, Syra could feel the heat of his presence. How the Virgin could look upon him and not realize that the Brutus of old was gone.

  In his stead stood a chiseled warrior. Muscles in his jaw rippled with anger and frustration. Syra slunk along the wall, keeping to the scant midday shadows. Not in fear for Brutus, but for the Virgin.